He who draws noble delights from sentiments of poetry is a true poet, though he has never written a line in all his life. - George Sand

Indeed, nothing is further from realizing the pretension of the beautiful than an ill-arranged ball. So many things difficult to assemble are necessary that during an entire century perhaps only two are given that can satisfy the artist. There must be the right climate, locale, decoration, food and costumes. It must be a Spanish or Italian night, dark and moonless, because the moon, when it reigns in the sky, throws an influence of languor and melancholy over men that is reflected in all their sensations. It must be a fresh, airy night with stars shining feebly through the clouds. There must be large gardens whose intoxicating perfume penetrates the rooms in waves. The fragrance of orange trees and of the Constantinople rose are especially apt to develop exaltation of heart and mind. There must be light food, delicate wines, fruit of all climates, and flowers of all seasons. There must be a profusion of things rare and difficult to possess, because a ball should be a realization of the most voracious imaginations and the most capricious desires. One must understand one thing before giving a ball: rich, civilized human beings find pleasure only in the hope of the impossible. So one must approach the impossible as closely as one can.

Le sillon du laboureur ne vaut-il pas celui de l’oisif qui a pourtant un nom, un nom qui restera si, par une singularité ou une absurdité quelconque, il fait un peu de bruit dans le monde ?…

"My good aunt Lucie was on the eve of marriage with an officer who was a friend of my father, and they were all celebrating in the intimacy of the family. My mother was wearing a pretty dress the color of roses. They were dancing a quadrille composed by my father, as he played on his faithful Cremona violin. . . . My mother, feeling a slight malaise, left the dance and went to her bedroom. Since she showed no signs of indisposition and had left so quietly, the dancing continued. My aunt Lucie, as it was ending, went to my mother's bedroom, and almost immediately she was heard to cry, "Come, come quickly, Maurice, you have a daughter!"

"She shall be called Aurore," said my father, "after my poor, dear mother, who is not here to bless her, but who will someday!"
And he took me in his arms. . . .
"She was born to the sound of music and in the color of
roses," said my aunt. "She will know happiness.